


hands-on skills

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [27]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedelia is an amazing shot, Early days in Lecter Castle, F/M, and Hannibal loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 07:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18734107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia teaches Hannibal how to shoot.





	hands-on skills

**Author's Note:**

> For those like me who are not gun savvy: stock is the back part of the rifle, comb is where you place your cheek against the stock, bolt is the part that blocks the rear opening of the barrel and moves back and forward allowing loading/unloading of cartridges.  
> Bedelia first displayed her shooting skills in my initial "Count and Countess Lecter" story which I referenced here.

Hannibal remembers it well; the very rare carved root wood stock with pattern flowing differently each time he looked at it, the lion on the barrel guarding it with determined fierceness. His uncle’s rifle was among his most prized possessions, displayed proudly on the wall of his study. It did not carry the ghosts of its ancestors like his aunt’s armour, merely serving as a tangible reminder of past adventures. Adventures young Hannibal was never a part of, being a mere guest in someone else’s life.

Yet the memory is not distressing, more of a distant recollection as his mind and heart focus on the hands currently adjusting the bolt.

Sitting on the sofa, Hannibal watches, captivated, as Bedelia slowly examines the piece, his book forgotten by his side. The lines in the wood still swirl enigmatically, the surface now shining more from years of use and polish, but it pales in comparison to the sight of Bedelia’s delicate fingers, opening it and putting it back together with ease that leaves him speechless.

“The comb is a tad off,” Bedelia concludes, bringing the rifle up and gazing towards an imaginary target.

“I am certain Chiyoh is preparing to cross the continent back to address this insult,” Hannibal says with a wide smile and Bedelia smirks in response.

The rifle was a parting gift of sorts; Chiyoh left it for Bedelia, out of respect or fear, Hannibal could not tell. Perhaps it was her way of trusting Bedelia with his protection, the thought coursed through his veins with cordial warmth. Chiyoh might not have realised it, but the idea was more than appropriate; Bedelia has saved his life more than once.

“It seemed to be working sufficiently before,” Hannibal adds, remembering the sight of Bedelia shooting a wild duck. The recollection makes his cock twitch instantly.

“Mere luck,” Bedelia responds casually with what Hannibal knows is false modesty. He shifts in his seat, suddenly restless.

She gives him a curious glance but says nothing, then sets the rifle down on the table, pleased with her inspection.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Hannibal asks in his continuous amazement.

Bedelia’s hand hovers over the gun, her gaze downcast and he knows she is carefully contemplating his request. Hannibal waits patiently; he does not want to rush the petals of her unfolding. He adores watching her bloom slowly, savouring each bud; they have all the time in the world, after all.

“My father taught me,” she speaks at last, eyes lifting and meeting his in her reveal.

Hannibal nods ever so slightly in voiceless acknowledgement and gentle encouragement.

“It was a tradition in his family. They would go on hunts during every holiday. No major prey mainly hares and birds, but he had always enjoyed it and he wanted to keep the tradition. My sister did not want to learn, she found it barbaric, but I liked it.”

Hannibal sees it so clearly; teenage Bedelia with her hair pulled back firmly, learning the new skill with determination reflected on her delicate visage. A task so different to what he imagines was usually expected of her; he understands why she took to it.

“My mother had always condemned the activity as not being _sophisticated_ enough,” she frowns slightly upon the memory, “Perhaps it made me enjoy it more. Or perhaps it is simply the precision it requires.”

She lifts the rifle anew in one decisive movement and pulls the trigger; the unloaded gun clicks softly, but Hannibal finds himself fully charged with arousal.

“You are a woman of unexpected talents, Bedelia,” his voice grows husk with lust.

“It is appropriate for a Countess to know how to defend herself, don’t you think?” her hand runs over the length of the barrel with care. Hannibal delights in the way her lips wrap around her title, taking as much pleasure in it as he does.

“She absolutely should,” he finally abandons his spot, unable to resist anymore. Standing up abruptly, he sends the book falling to the floor, but the silent thud remains unobserved. “And she does.” He wraps his arms around her waist and Bedelia chuckles as his impatient lips pursue every line on her exposed neck.

“Hannibal, you are incorrigible,” she says, but tilts her head to allow him better access, nonetheless.

“That is why you chose me,” he states with conviction, kissing her still, his arms enveloping her closer, and she purrs softly which he recognises as her silent agreement.

 

The examined rifle is put to the test the following day as Bedelia stations a provisional target range in their garden, laying out empty bottles on boxes, serving as makeshift pillars. Hannibal observes her work from behind the window of the library, unsure if she requires his assistance, but ready to step in at any moment. Yet it is not needed and, now, having finish her set up, Bedelia disappears inside the castle. Hannibal glances at the terrace in fierce anticipation and soon enough, the door opens, and she reappears, walking with strong intent, a riffle in her right hand. She wears her riding boots and trousers, topped with a purple shirt. She looks magnificent, Hannibal cannot look away. Even her hair being pulled back in a ponytail does not take away from the image; quite the contrary, it adds to the air of command her presence exudes.

The barrier of the window suddenly becoming a nuisance, Hannibal swiftly follows her suit and makes his way to the garden. He steps through the door just as she readies herself to shoot. He takes his time in committing the sight to his memory and yearning to pour it onto paper later. Bedelia’s hair gleams in the afternoon sun, shining through the trees behind her, eager rays reaching through the branches to caress her strands and ignite their light. Hannibal watches as the purple of her outfit fuses with the hues of the flowers blooming in the garden, a perfect composition. Her stance is firm as she focuses on her target. She looks beautiful, severe and timeless, in keeping with the image the castle and its grounds. Like she has always belonged here. Hannibal smiles; he has never imagined anything less.

His musings are interrupted by a loud shot, shattering the bottle in its very middle. Bedelia inclines her head in silent appraisal of her work and reloads the rifle. Without hesitation, she takes another shot, reaching its mark as precisely as the first one. Hannibal stands rooted to the spot, his eyes flickering between Bedelia and the vanishing targets in silent amazement. Her skill and accuracy are astonishing. A feeling of discontent fills his heart as the last bottle disappears in a burst of glass. He is ready to fetch additional ones, even sacrifice full ones, anything to continue to watch her.

But Bedelia seems to be satisfied with the extend of her practice, pointing the rifle down and making her way back to the terrace. As she walks closer, Hannibal can clearly see the sharp glimmer in her eyes.

“Would you like to try?” she stops in front of him and lifts the barrel of the rifle.

“No, thank you,” he responds, trying to regain his voice and composure, even though his mind continues to float in the haze of her charm.

“Is it because it belonged to your uncle?” she presses on, a fresh spark igniting her gas flame eyes, indicating a new target for her perusal.

“No,” he responds truthfully, marvelling at her ability to shift her hunting instincts so swiftly, “I do not like guns. They are rather impersonal.”

Bedelia raises an eyebrow, not convinced by his excuse. And he does not blame her; suddenly he does not believe it himself, the spectacle of her talent putting his opinion on shaky ground. He anticipates her arguing the point, but she does not. She reaches out her hand to gently stroke his cheek and leaves him standing on the terrace while she returns inside.

The sharp aroma of burned gunpowder lingers on his skin where her fingers touched him. It is strangely pleasurable.

 

As the next morning arrives, Hannibal expects Bedelia to venture into the forest to try the rifle on a moving target. Recalling the roasted wild duck, he secretly looks forward to turning her kill into a meal with the same excitement he usually reserves for his own supplies.

It surprises him when she begins to set the target range anew after their breakfast. Surely, she does not need the practice. But he does not object, his heart and cock leaping at another opportunity to observe her skill. As she collects empty bottles, Hannibal sharpens his pencils. Yesterday’s attempts at drawing her were unsatisfactory as he was unable to capture the unique sharpness in her eyes. And the memory proved to be more of a distraction than inspiration, his focus drifting away as he sat over a half-finished piece with an infatuated smile upon his lips. He is determined to encapsulate all of it today.

A pad and pencils in his hand, he waits for her to return at the terrace door. She appears with a rifle as expected and Hannibal wastes no time in opening the door for her, already soaking in her authority. But she stops just before the door and reaches for his pad, taking it out of his hand. Startled, Hannibal does not protest, merely watches as she places it on the nearby cabinet, then takes his hand and leads him outside.

Never one to shy away from her taking charge, he follows her obediently to the middle of the garden, beaming in joyful expectation. But his smile fades when they stop and Bedelia offers him the gun.

“I thought we had established that is not my weapon of choice,” he frowns in disappointment; that is not how he has envisioned this morning, still silently longing to watch the captivating display of her talent.

“Perhaps you do not how to use it and choose to hide it behind your aversion,” she comments, gazing at him curiously, dissecting his words, “It is quite common for adults who find it harder to learn a new skill.”

She baits him, he knows it well, but she knows him better still; his pride rebels at once and he takes the rifle from her extended hand. He turns towards the targets and sets his aim. He pulls the trigger with a wince; it is such an _ungraceful_ instrument. The bullet grazes the side of the bottle, but it is enough to break it. He hands the gun back to Bedelia with a contended smile of having proven her wrong.

“You would have missed if it were a moving target,” she wipes the smile off his face anew. “A gun requires as much of a personal touch and ability as any other tool, you cannot rely on the mechanics to do the work for you. It will result in a sloppy kill.”

She pauses, letting the words sink it, knowing she has struck the right spot in the wall of his persistence.

“I have never considered you to be unmethodical, Hannibal,” she smiles gently, slowly chipping away at his resolve.

Hannibal considers her argument; it is as precise as her skill. He lifts the rifle anew, but does not shoot, glancing at Bedelia and waiting for her assessment. Nodding in appreciation, she steps closer in order to adjust his posture.

“Widen your stance,” standing behind him, she puts her hands on his hips, making him move his left foot forward. Hannibal grins delighted by her touch and attention. He does not know why he resisted this, how foolish of him.

“You are lifting your shoulders too high,” her hands move up, fingers gently tracing the line of his shoulders with a soft stroke making him relax his muscles. Hannibal lets out a low growl.

“Hannibal,” the hands pause, resting on his upper arms, “Control yourself,” she reprimands him, but he can hear amusement beneath her command.

His head tilts to the back and he meets her smiling eyes.

“This is the one aspect of my life where I will never control myself,” he proclaims solemnly, making her chuckle quietly. He can tell by the playful spark in her stare that she does not object in the slightest.

His gaze returns ahead, and his shoulders loosen down as ordered. Bedelia’s hands fall away, and she takes a few steps back.

“Try it again,” she says, and Hannibal focuses on the target ahead. He pulls the trigger more deliberately this time. The bullet hits the very middle on the bottle.

Hannibal lowers the gun, surprised and unexpectedly proud of himself. He had always preferred to be “hands on” with his quarry, but long-distance accuracy proved to be strangely satisfying.

“Once more?” Bedelia asks, seeing his sense of achievement, and he nods at once, reloading the rifle.

Another precise shot and another target perishes. Hannibal smiles to himself; it pleases him to know that the first shot was more than just a stroke of luck. And Bedelia smiles too, seeing him suddenly enjoy himself.

Shot after shot, he continues his practice with a new found verve, at times purposely tensing his shoulders beforehand to make Bedelia touch him. The ruse that does not last long, but it is very enjoyable while it does.

Once all the bottles are reduced to a pile of glass, Hannibal returns the rifle to its owner. The exhilaration carries on racing through his veins.

After cleaning the temporary range, they retire to their bedroom. Bedelia sits on the bed while Hannibal unzips her boots. He sets the boots aside, watching her undo her hair, letting it fall loose on her shoulders. The soft locks make her look tenderer now, the side of her that enchants him as much as her strong command.

Bedelia never fails to bring joy to his life in the most unanticipated ways. He is determined to keep the flame of excitement burning for her as well.

 

The package arrives two weeks later. It is too long to place on her vanity, so Hannibal leaves in on the dining hall table instead, a rather fitting spot, he thinks. Black box adorned with a golden ribbon, he adjusts the bow, making sure it sits just right.

“What is the occasion?” Bedelia says upon entering the room and spotting the obvious offering.

“When have I ever needed a special occasion to get something for my wife?” he steps closer and kisses her softly, then lets her examine the present.

She frowns at his declaration but scrutinises the wrapping with a pleased smiled before lifting the cover.

A brand-new rifle rests on a bed of red velvet, cherry wood stock polished brilliantly with the Lecter crest carved into the wood. Below the emblem, carved with the same flourish are the initials “BDML”.

Bedelia gasps at the gift, hand reaching out slowly to trace the crest and her initials.

“You didn’t have to do this, Hannibal,” she says quietly, a comment he knows she reserves for only the most treasured gifts.

“I did,” he responds with a smile, “A Countess cannot use a rifle with a faulty comb.”

Bedelia smiles, almost timidly, before taking the rifle out and examining it slowly.

“It is light, but the accuracy has not been compromised,” Hannibal explains, watching her adjust it in her grip. A bespoke piece, he made sure it was tailored specifically to Bedelia.

“It is perfect,” she places the stock against her cheek and gives it an approving nod.

“I am glad,” Hannibal states in relief. It is not like him to rely solely on expertise of others and he is contended the craftsmanship is satisfactory.

“You are more than welcome to use it,” she says with a kittenish grin, setting the rifle down, unsure of his current attitude towards guns.

“There is no need,” having waited for this cue, he turns around and reaches for a matching rifle resting on top of the fireplace.

Bedelia startles anew, noticing the same design and crest with the initials adjusted accordingly, “HDML”.

“Are you planning to use it as decoration?” she comments on its temporarily placement, suggesting the permanent fixture above the fireplace.

Hannibal remembers his uncle’s display; it felt lifeless, removed from its purpose. It is the last thing he would want in their home.

“No,” he takes the gun and lets it settle in his hand. The odd sensation remains, but it is now overshadowed by his desire to master the weapon. “I believe I still have a lot to learn.”

Smiling wider, Bedelia steps closer and places a kiss on his cheek.

“I am sure you will master it in no time,” she says, her fingers caressing his jaw.

“I do have the best possible teacher,” he responds, cradling her palm against his cheek.

He has never been in better hands. And he has never felt safer.

**Author's Note:**

> It was high time for a story where Bedelia teaches Hannibal something, since it is usually the other way around. The trick was to find a proper activity and this felt perfect.  
> You know that one of my favourite headcanons is them both having double barrelled surnames, hence the initials on the rifles.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
